


Sunday

by Sheepnamedpig



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, More Fluff, Stubble, Sugar, cavities, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepnamedpig/pseuds/Sheepnamedpig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John drops the dishtowel onto the sparkling clean kitchen counter, wiping off the last of the damp on his hands onto his trousers as he wanders into the sitting room.  Mycroft is napping on the sofa, snoring away the afternoon.  </p>
<p>Annoying, that.  John wants to be entertained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt.
> 
> Unbeta'd

John drops the dishtowel onto the sparkling clean kitchen counter, wiping off the last of the damp on his hands onto his trousers as he wanders into the sitting room. Mycroft is napping on the sofa, snoring away the afternoon.

Annoying, that. John wants to be entertained.

He glances at the clock, figures that Mycroft will just have to be satisfied with an hour’s worth of naptime, and promptly flops himself on top of the unsuspecting napper with just enough caution to not knock the wind out of him.

Mycroft jerks awake and cracks an eye open just long enough to impart John with a baleful glare before closing it pointedly and turning his face away in an offended pout. John’s chin follows, their mutual stubble rasping in the relative silence of the room.

“Ach,” Mycroft murmurs. “Stubble.”

“You love it,” John purrs. Mycroft squirms.

“On Friday evenings, Saturdays, and the nights before bank holidays. What day is it today, John?”

“Sunday.”

“And what do I have tomorrow?”

“Work.”

“And can I go into work with stubble burn on my face?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft rears his head back and opens his mouth wide to bite down on John’s nose. His breath smells strongly of garlic sauce and John crinkles his face in mock disgust. In retaliation, his fingers pluck open a button on his shirt and his mouth follows, descending to express his displeasure by blowing a messy raspberry onto warm skin. Mycroft, as always, writhes like a deeply affronted eel, but chuckles anyways. John can feel the vibration of it against his face and slides his hands under Mycroft’s body to wrap his arms around Mycroft’s torso. Negotiations complete, they settle like that, each pinned by the other, and the only movement is John’s head as he rubs his fuzzy chin against the damp patch of revealed skin, the scrape of his stubble drawing blood to the surface and turning it a rosy pink. Mycroft begins to slip back into a doze, lulled by the slow scratch that he really does love and the solid warmth of John’s body.


End file.
